


Distant Flames

by SugarsweetRomantic



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angel Lucy Preston, Demon Garcia Flynn, F/M, Fire and Ice, Oneshot, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 22:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19305370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarsweetRomantic/pseuds/SugarsweetRomantic
Summary: A recently-changed demon and an unwilling angel born into royalty cross paths in San Francisco, changing both of their lives forever.





	Distant Flames

It takes him a moment to notice the angel. Normally, being within a three-mile radius of one of them makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a silent protest against the nauseating virtuousness of it all. This one he doesn't pick up on until her hand brushes against his as she pushes past him to enter the subway train that he just exited. He knows she felt it though, the feeling of his skin burning hers an unmistakable sensation; large brown eyes stare into what would have been his soul if he still had one.

The train speeds away, and so does the angel.

 

He should report the sighting to one of Emma's lieutenants, but returning to Niflheim just to please Loki's hotheaded daughter isn't very high on his list of priorities. It's just above repairing the squeaky step at the bottom of his basement stairs. That's been there for four years. Instead of visiting what he should probably be calling home by now to notify those above him in rank of the incentive to start yet another bounty hunt, he grabs his phone and scrolls through the options on offer. Chinese sounds good tonight. 

 

The next time he sees her, it’s at a blood drive. He may be a demon, but he’s still got perfectly normal O negative, and it’s a small thing to do. A chatty nurse inserts the cannula into his arm and he’s all set to go. As he tries to focus on the radio, a woman is led towards the chair next to his. 

It’s her, and he can’t help but stare. 

“Do I know you?” she asks quietly once nurse Peppy has returned to her station. 

“No,” he replies truthfully, “but I know of your kind.”

“And I of yours.” The angel tries to stare him down. She doesn’t last long. Sighing, she asks: “So, now what? Should I start checking for assassins from Hel?” 

“No.” She seems taken aback at his reply. 

“Why not?” He shrugs. She seems like a bright one; he’ll let her figure that one out by herself. Before the angel can ask another question, the nurse is back at his side, removing the IV and handing him a cookie. Walking out of the building, he can just hear her ask the angel: “How are you feeling, Miss Preston?” He hands his cookie to a schoolboy loitering outside the front entrance. 

 

It’s not hard to find her, especially if one’s best friend is a brilliant ethical hacker -- though Jiya reassures him that any teen with a smartphone could have done this as well. Professor Doctor Lucy Preston teaches feminist and queer modern history at Stanford.  _ Lucy _ , he’s not sure he’s heard of that particular angel before. Then again, he hasn’t been a demon for very long. He’s practically a baby when it comes to his knowledge of the supernatural.

 

He enrolls in one of her open classes --  _ the role of women in the Belle Époque  _ \-- which means he now has her email address. He doesn’t send her a message, though, opting instead to saunter into her classroom five minutes before the first lecture. He takes a seat in the back of the room, leaning backwards in the cramped space to make some room for his legs. Lucy Preston is a good storyteller, captivating her audience with anecdotes so realistic that you’d think she saw the events with her own eyes. Being an angel, it’s not unlikely that she has. 

 

When he returns to his townhouse that night, there’s a serpent with a lilac sheen waiting for him on his dining room table. Shaking his head, he tells it: “Just transform, would you? I’m not big on telepathic conversing.” Within seconds, there’s a blonde woman sitting on the surface.

“What, not happy to see me?” she asks.

“Hello Jessica,” he replies, choosing not to answer her question. “Tea?”

 

“Why are you here, Lieutenant?” he asks Jessica once he’s made himself some tea, and she’s got a glass of wine in her hands. 

“Can’t I want to visit my favourite newbie?” she responds, downing the wine in one gulp. “Fine. Nicholas has caught wind of an angel running around San Francisco.”

“Has he?” 

“And not just an angel. Daughter of Freyja and heir of Odin. She’ll inherit both Valhalla as well as Fólkvangr. She’ll rule over all those that die in combat, instead of just half. Naturally, we need to get rid of her.”

“And you’re telling me instead of Karl or Stiv because…?” he inquires. It makes no sense for Emma to have called upon him. There are older demons, higher-ranked ones, more loyal ones. He’s just a soldier, spending his days roaming the streets and taking out the occasional low-risk target. He’s most definitely not Hel’s bounty hunter of choice.

“To demonstrate your loyalty, obviously,” Jessica replies, laughing. “Here.” She conjures a small flame, which reveals an official decree. “Have fun now, Flynn, and don’t make too much of a mess.” With a snap of her fingers, Jessica is gone, leaving the document on his table. It’s scorched the wood, and it’s still hot to the touch as he picks it up to inspect it. Large, decorated Old Norse covers the page, telling him that Emma, daughter of Loki and Angrboða, has issued the elimination of Lucia Gersemi, daughter of Freyja and Odin, to be carried out by Garcia Flynn. 

 

He finds her after class, approaching her as calmly as possible.

“Could I speak with you?” he asks. “In private?”

“What could you possibly have to say to me that you can’t say here?” Lucy replies as she packs her things into her laptop bag. 

“Please,  _ Lucia _ ,” he begs her. “I don’t want to hurt you.” He lays his hand on her forearm so she can feel the contrast of his fiery skin against her icy form. 

“Fine,” she concedes. “Follow me.”

 

Her office is cosy and warm. For some reason, it surprises him. He had expected something more sterile from the angel dressed in burgundy. Making the decree appear, he hands it to Lucy, but the document immediately burns her fingers when she tries to grasp it. She doesn’t flinch; doesn’t scream, and instead just lets it drop to the floor while she ices the wound with a small handful of snow produced by her other hand. Flynn holds it up for her instead, and she studies it carefully. 

“If you’re here to kill me, please get it over with,” she decides eventually. 

“I’m not.”

“You’re a strange demon, Garcia Flynn.”

“I don’t approve of all the killing,” he replies, “but it’s my only chance.”   
“At what?” she asks, and he isn’t sure how to respond. At salvation? Redemption? At forgiveness? Those all seem like words her kind would use, not his. Lucy’s kind. Lorena’s kind, once. 

 

When he doesn’t respond, she reaches into her desk and produces a thin sheet of what seems to be glass, but of which he realises upon closer inspection that it’s perma-ice.

“You can’t touch it,” she warns. He knows that angelic materials are engineered to disintegrate at the slightest contact with a demon. In the same Old Norse that Emma likes to communicate in, the letters on the ice spell out the order for his own destruction by Lucia’s hand, issued by her mother.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Lucy tells him, “but I don’t know what to do now. I can’t stand up to my parents and Emma by myself. I’m just a historian. I can’t fight; I know nothing of battles and tactics. I’m useless.”

“I disagree,” Flynn protests. “Could you please create some more snow?” Lucy frowns at him, but nods, producing a small pile of snow on her desk. Dropping the demonic decree onto the cold substance, and taking the sheet of ice from Lucy, he makes both documents destroy themselves. 

“I think we make quite the team.” 


End file.
